


The Fine Art of Disguise

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [17]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Anagrams, Butt Plugs, Disguise, Humor, M/M, Non-Con Roleplay, Oblivious, Playing Doctor, Sexual Roleplay, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26156845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: The Fifth Doctor finds himself sexually menaced by a series of strange-looking fellows with names like ‘Emstar’, ‘Remast’, and ‘Astrem’. Such a very great mystery who they could possibly be, why they all insist on removing his trousers, and what they want from him.A scientific study in obliviousness.
Relationships: Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	The Fine Art of Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, I set out to answer a very difficult and important question: Is there any situation anywhere ever in which the Fifth Doctor would actually top?
> 
> Inspired by the fact that I legitimately got all the way through the Master’s ‘reveal’ scene in ‘The King’s Demons’ wondering why Five and Tegan didn’t call Ainley out, before I realized that they were somehow supposed to have not recognized him the whole time. Oops. This is just one of many reasons that I love that serial so much.

“Hello, there,” the Doctor said with a friendly smile and a wave as he stepped out of his TARDIS to the shocked gasps of the onlookers, who all appeared to be wearing some sort of priestly garments. Well, that could either be good or bad: priestly sorts either tended to be friendly, or else fervently violent about sacrilege.

“Seize the interloper!” a particularly smug and snide voice shouted out almost immediately. Unfortunately these priestly sorts were of the latter architype, then. Although there was something about the voice that gave the Doctor goose bumps, more so than your typical zealot.

“Sorry,” the Doctor said abashedly as a pair of guards came out of seemingly nowhere and grabbed his arms, holding him rather snuggly in place, “have I done something wrong?”

“No one is allowed within the inner sanctum without first paying homage to the great goddess Yalkia.” As he said it, smug-and-snide circled around from behind the TARDIS so that the Doctor could see him clearly for the first time. Smug-and-snide was humanoid like the guards. Although, unlike the others, he appeared to be wearing black velvet underneath his priest robes. What set him apart most, however, was the lustful look in his clear blue eyes as they raked the Doctor up and down. There was clearly superior intelligence there, despite the man’s apparent religious-fanatical inclinations. Other than that, he was an odd-looking man: with a hump that looked rather like a squished-in pillow on one shoulder, jowls that didn’t quite match the skin-tone of the rest of his face, and wild indigo hair that looked just a bit, well...artificial.

The Doctor could not quite seem to place the species. “I meant no offense, I assure you,” he said with his most winsome smile. “I’m the Doctor, and I’m a traveller to these parts. I was unaware of your rules. And you are?”

“High Priest Emstar,” the strangely-contrived-looking man said. He paused expectantly.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” the Doctor said, offering Emstar his hand from where it had somehow freed itself from the guard restraining him, “and I’d be equally delighted to make the acquaintance of your great goddess – paying proper homage this time, of course – as well.”

Emstar accepted the Doctor’s hand and shook it a bit viciously, as if he well understood the hand-shaking custom. Which might have been telling of something because all the other guards looked absolutely baffled by the Doctor's hand-extending gesture. In fact, out of the corner of the Doctor’s eye, he could see two new guards enter – it must’ve been time to change shifts – and the new guards and old guards waggled their ears at each other, which rather indicated that _that_ was the greeting custom on this planet. How curious.

“Very well,” Emstar’s voice sounded placated, but those blue eyes of his looked ravenous instead. Perhaps facial expressions indicated something different on this planet, as well? Ogling translated to forgiveness, or some such. “If you’ll follow me.”

The Doctor stepped out of his jacket, leaving the two befuddled guards who thought they’d had him captured holding it. “By all means,” he agreed with a graceful sweep of his arm to indicate ‘after you’.

Emstar did so with a nice little swagger to his hips. Lovely hips, really, the Doctor couldn’t help but notice.

He led the Doctor down a sconce-lit corridor through the bowels of a limestone cave system. The walls were painted with what looked like a giant golden mole, and hundreds of humanoids with that odd indigo hair, nude from the waist up, bowing before her in reverence.

Indeed, when they reached what appeared to be some sort of antechamber, Emstar informed the Doctor, “All must bare their chests before the great goddess Yaklia, so that she may see into the supplicant’s true hearts.”

“I thought it was ‘Yalkia’?” the Doctor said, pushing his braces off his shoulders and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Emstar licked his lips as the Doctor’s torso began to become exposed. “Whichever.”

“And clever of you to know that I, a single supplicant, possessed multiple hearts…” The Doctor finished with his shirt buttons, and shrugged off both his shirt and vest before placing them on the shelf provided.

“Yes…well, er…lucky guess?” Emstar’s ogling had increased markedly the more the Doctor had got naked.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yalkia extends some of her powers to her servants. I could see the number of your hearts that way,” Emstar hastily hedged. He handed the Doctor a small jar. “Here, unguent. Due to the extreme nature of your offense, it is proper that you oil yourself in atonement.”

The Doctor shrugged, took the jar, and did so. “Won’t you need to be bare-chested as well?” he asked casually, rubbing the slick oil onto his stomach as he did so.

Emstar gulped; the movement caused it to look like those off-coloured jowls of his weren’t quite properly attached to the rest of his face, how odd. “Yes. Yes, of course I must,” he agreed a bit overeagerly.

By the time the Doctor was finished oiling his chest, Emstar had shed his top as well. Strangely enough, without the priest’s robe, the hump from earlier wasn’t noticeable at all. Perhaps it was some sort of unusual fashion statement on this planet?

“If you’re ready, then?” Emstar said, sounding quite hoarse.

“Oh yes,” the Doctor agreed, “I’m feeling particularly atoneful at the moment. Best to get it over with while I’m in the mood.”

Emstar rang a small bronze gong, and the pair of massive doors opened before them, drawn by unseen hands. Inside was a broad staircase in pure white limestone leading upward to face an enormous solid-gold statue of a star-nosed mole. The Doctor made a face.

“You admire our goddess?” Emstar asked.

“Yes, well. Noble creatures, moles. Lovely plumage,” the Doctor said as politely as he could. “An excellent specimen of the breed, I’m sure.”

They climbed the stairs to the first landing where they came to a platform that was clearly designed for supplicants.

“Bow,” Emstar ordered.

The Doctor bent perfectly politely at the waist with a sigh, despite not quite liking Emstar’s commanding tone of voice. When in Rome, and all that.

“You have”—Emstar was behind the Doctor now so the Doctor couldn’t see him, but Emstar’s breathing seemed unusually heavy all of a sudden: religious fervour, no doubt—“been exceptionally disrespectful to the great goddess up until this point.”

“Yalkia, yes?” the Doctor said.

“Or Yaklia,” Emstar said.

“Whichever.”

“Quite.”

“How,” the Doctor said, mouth suddenly inexplicably dry, “might I ever make up for that disrespect?”

“I think,” Emstar concluded, “that you should bend over further. Grab your ankles, say?”

“Ah,” the Doctor said, “I thought as much. Give me a minute here. I’m not as spry as I used to be.” As if to belie his words, however, he managed to bend in half and grab his ankles on the first pass.

Instantly, Emstar was pressed up behind him, and then something in the Doctor’s trousers gave, and suddenly they were down around his knees. Then Emstar pushed up against him harder, and – oh no – somehow Emstar’s trousers had fallen down, too!

“Ah!” the Doctor said as his entrance was suddenly breached by something long, thick, and warm. “Ah!” He gasped out again when the hard thing pulled back out of him and then thrust back inside. “This. Can’t. Be. Respectful!” Each word accompanied a separate thrust. It seemed that, having tripped and fallen cock-first inside the Doctor, Emstar was having a surprisingly difficult time finding his way back out.

“ _Dis_ respect is exactly what I intend!” Emstar suddenly broke out in a maniacal cackle, which – hang on! – the Doctor was certain he’d heard somewhere else before, but where? “Once angered, mole-faced what’s-her-name will emerge enraged from her lair, and the trap I have laid for her will be sprung! Then, my servants shall capture her, and her milk will feed the army of super-soldiers I’ve bred to conquer this miserable backwater of a planet!” With that declaration, he rogered the Doctor extra hard, so that the Doctor nearly felt the force of his cock at the back of his throat.

“D-Diabolical buggery!” the Doctor accused, aghast, as he held on to his ankles for dear life. His arse clenched around Emstar’s cock in defiance (and absolutely not for any other reason). “Who would do such a thing?”

Emstar cackled again, and his voice changed ever so slightly. Suddenly, an indigo wig and some really obviously fake prosthetic jowls were thrown to the floor before the Doctor’s face.

“A disguise!” the Doctor gasped in shock (and also at the really lovely things that full cock was doing to his pleasure centres).

“It is I, your arch-nemesis, here to defeat you again!” Emstar announced.

“Not Davros!” the Doctor exclaimed, perhaps a bit cruelly.

A rather vicious hand clamped around the back of the Doctor’s neck. “No,” Emstar hissed icily, “now no more games: say my name properly.” He twisted his hips roughly inside the Doctor, causing him to yelp.

“M-Master?” the Doctor stuttered out at the force of the Master’s thrusts.

“ _Yes_ ,” the Master’s voice sounded honey-rich with rapture at hearing the Doctor say it. His hand squeezed on the Doctor’s neck, and his next thrust nearly bucked the Doctor right off his own toes, and he spilled rather messily inside the Doctor’s body. So messily, in fact, that suddenly there was a lot of mess around the Doctor’s own cock, as well.

On cue, Yalkia or Yaklia or whichever emerged from her den, enraged, and there was quite a lot of laser-zapping and screaming henchmen. At some point the Master left the Doctor with an affectionate squeeze on his pert behind and pulled up his own trousers to go help his allies (or possibly just save his own skin).

Alas, however, the Master’s force-field was underpowered to contain a power as mighty as two-storey star-nosed mole, and soon henchmen were dying every which way, and the Master was (per usual) screaming out for the Doctor to save him.

The Doctor finally let go of his ankles, stood up (rather gingerly), fixed his trousers and braces back into place, and hobbled as best he could over to the control panel. Walking wasn’t exactly comfortable given the enthusiastic pounding he’d just taken.

The force-field itself was a lost cause, but if he redirected the lasers to the ceiling just so…

Approximately ten seconds later, the ceiling had caved in, causing what’s-her-mole to retreat back into the caverns, a solid wall of rock now closing off the entrance from which she had been jollily devouring the Master’s henchmen. What remained of said henchmen had continued to flee for their lives, until all that was left was the Doctor and the Master, who was still clinging to the far control panel for dear life where the force of what’s-her-mole’s stomps had tilted the floor such that it had now reorientated at nearly ninety degrees, sending the Master in danger of tumbling into the chasms below.

“Save me, Doctor!” he pleaded.

The Doctor hobbled again – even more gingerly with each step – over to where the Master clung, and reached out to catch the Master’s hand. The Master snatched at him wildly and, once the Doctor had pulled him to safety, clung to the Doctor’s midsection instead.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” the Doctor said with a weary sigh.

“Curses, thwarted again,” the Master said, rather perfunctorily, the Doctor thought. “I suppose,” he added slyly, his fingers trailing their way suggestively up the Doctor’s still-naked-and-oiled chest, “you could do anything to me you wanted now. _Anything at all_." The Master got that ogling look in his eyes again as he said the last.

“Right,” the Doctor agreed. “Off to prison with you, then!”

“ _What_?” the Master protested – and continued to protest – all the way up until the Doctor handed him over to the proper authorities, who looked quite unimpressed with the false priest who’d created such a mess of their temple. “I’ll have my vengeance for this!” the Master frothed as he was dragged away, looking far more upset now than he had when the Doctor had initially thwarted him.

Strange fellow.

***

The Doctor’s next stop-over turned out to be several thousand years earlier on Quirmus V. He’d got himself twisted up in the nearly identical corridors around the spaceport – call them spaceports or airports, they were all bloody nightmares to be lost in – when he suddenly found himself surrounded by four large, burly men with blue stars stamped on their left cheeks.

“Where’s your star?” one of them demanded, pointing to the Doctor’s obviously-starless left cheek.

The Doctor reached up to rub his cheek self-consciously. “Must’ve left it at home,” he said with a disarming smile. “Tell you what: if you just let me pop on back to my TARDIS—” and so on with the usual inane nonsense.

As usual, the usual inane nonsense didn’t work, and the Doctor found himself frog-marched back behind some security desks and into what looked like a white isolation room. Oh dear, that was never a good sign. The room contained a metal examination table, several immaculate steel cabinets, and a steel sink. A definite decorative choice there. If the Doctor had to name the motif, he’d go with ‘hospital sterile’.

He hopped up on the edge of the examination table and dangled his feet insouciantly while looking around his temporary prison. Quite a lovely air duct overhead, absolutely rife for escaping. However, before he’d got around to doing so, the door opened, and in stepped a funny-looking man in a lab coat.

By ‘funny-looking’, the Doctor meant that the man appeared to have a bright ginger beard and moustache plastered over what seemed to be a black goatee underneath. Was double facial hair a trend on this planet? How unique! The man was wearing a monocle over that, and had the requisite blue star on his right cheek.

“Hang on,” the Doctor said, “isn’t it supposed to go on the left?”

The man coughed into his hand, and when he pulled his hand away, the star was indeed on his left cheek.

“Oh, so sorry, my mistake,” the Doctor said. “I’m the Doctor. And you?”

“I am Dr. Remast,” the man in the lab coat announced. He had a strange sort of an accent that the Doctor could only describe as a garbled mix of _every_ accent the Doctor had ever heard. “So nice to meet a fellow medical man.”

“Yes, well…” the Doctor hedged.

“You do not have an inoculation identifier,” Dr. Remast said scornfully, flicking the Doctor’s bare cheek with the fingers of one hand. “It is a good thing the security spotted you.” When he spoke, nearly all his letters sounded like other letters, so that he said it more like “Ah, eet ees uh gut theenk ze” and so on, which would be very annoying to type out or read, and for the good of all shall be glossed over in the dialogue henceforth.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” the Doctor said with his best dim-bulbed smile, rubbing awkwardly at where Dr. Remast had just flicked him.

Dr. Remast took pity on him, fortunately. “Ah, the radiation outside the spaceport – she is very dangerous. As a medical man yourself, you surely understand the great risk. We must get you inoculated, ASAP!” Dr. Remast had very blue eyes that looked as though they were either laughing at the Doctor or undressing him. And not in a proper medical-exam context, either.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor agreed. “Absolutely. I’d be most grateful, I’m sure.”

“If you’ll just let me deliver your inoculation, then?” Dr. Remast asked with what looked suspiciously like a leer.

The Doctor rolled up his sleeve. “I don’t see any reason why not.”

Dr. Remast tisked disapprovingly. “You make the little joke. With your medical expertise, you know that this is no simple injection.”

The Doctor was developing a sinking feeling exactly what sort of inoculation this would be. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “Deep-tissue inoculation, I assume?”

“ _Exactement_!” Apparently, Dr. Remast had turned abruptly French on a planet thousands of lightyears from Earth and millions of years before French had even been invented, how strange.

“Into the gut tissue is best, would you say?”

“Just so,” Dr. Remast agreed, and pulled out a pair of latex-looking blue examination gloves.

“Which means, of course, that you’ll need me to strip…”

“And then bend over the examination table, yes, please.”

The Doctor, wearily, began to remove his braces, in what was becoming a developing pattern. “Somehow, I knew you’d say that.”

“Not so fast, not so fast!” Dr. Remast chided him when he all but chucked off his vest and jacket. “Take your time.”

The Doctor paused and gave Dr. Remast a highly sceptical look. “And what can possibly be the medical justification for _that_?” he demanded.

“Umm… The inoculation will be more effective when taken with a lower heartsrate. Yes, best to draw everything out, nice and slow, so as not to become too agitated.”

The Doctor sighed and proceeded to strip very slowly indeed, dragging the whole thing out into a long tease.

“Yes,” Dr. Remast moaned as the Doctor popped open each button of his shirt, one at a time, “that is very good. Very good, indeed.” He readjusted his trousers not inconspicuously.

The Doctor finally got his trousers and pants off in a similar manner and then, when done, turned his back on Dr. Remast and bent forwards over the examination table so that his chest lay upon the surface, and his arse was presented to cool air. He could feel goose bumps run up and down his spine.

“Excellent,” Dr. Remast said. “Don’t worry about the cold. I’ll warm you up shortly.”

“That’ll be ni- _ICE_!” the Doctor yelped as two freezing fingers slid up his arse at once. They had been slicked up with some sort of lubricating gel that was quite cold.

“Just relax,” Dr. Remast said. “The temperature will adjust soon.” Indeed, as he said it, he thrust his fingers in and out of the Doctor’s arse several times such that the friction warmed everything up nicely. “How is that?” Dr. Remast asked.

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor said, “that’s much better.”

“We can do so much more than ‘better’, _non_?” Dr. Remast said, and suddenly his fingers crooked inside the Doctor.

The Doctor let out an ecstatic grunt, and his arse rocked back into the motion, wanting more.

“That is _best_ , wouldn’t you say?” Dr. Remast taunted him.

The Doctor whimpered in response as Dr. Remast continued to finger him with assiduous care.

“Yes, you are nice and loose for me now, aren’t you? You have had inoculations of this sort before, have you not?”

The Doctor grunted as Dr. Remast’s fingers plunged in especially deep. “Now that you mention it,” he agreed, “someone _has_ been ‘inoculating’ me rather regularly, of late…”

“Excellent,” Dr. Remast said, “because the actual instrument of inoculation will be…larger.” At that, his slicked fingers pulled back out, and the Doctor heard what sounded suspiciously like the clanging of an opening belt buckle.

“Of course it will…” he said with a long-suffering sigh.

Then suddenly (but not exactly surprisingly) Dr. Remast was pressed up against the backs of the Doctor’s spread naked thighs, and slowly and remorselessly, a very large probe indeed inserted its way into his arsehole.

“Oh!” the Doctor cried out with a start when that cock rammed home inside of him.

“It is just your inoculation,” Dr. Remast informed him. “A simple medical procedure.” He thrusted his hips in and out of the Doctor harshly several times, working him open and testing his depth and rhythm in this position.

The Doctor moaned out a little “ah!” in time with each thrust. He was quite hard now, embarrassingly, and all over a simple rectal exam!

Satisfied, Dr. Remast descended into grunts and moans as well, as he turned his full attention to stroking his cock in and out of the Doctor in a regular but increasingly frenetic rhythm. The Doctor could feel Dr. Remast lean forward onto the examination table, one hand braced beside the Doctor’s hip and the other clutching the Doctor’s arse cheek, pulling the Doctor back into his thrusts to take him deeper and harder.

The Doctor clung to the thin tissue-paper that lined the examination table, tearing it in his hands, desperate to hold on to something while he received the pummelling of a lifetime. His own cock ground down into the table, soaking the paper beneath it, the friction nearly unbearable.

“Just like that.” Dr. Remast’s contrived accent had strangely gone away entirely now, and his voice was rather familiar. “You take it so beautifully, Doctor.”

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying not to come, but it was impossible. Dr. Remast must’ve been an incredibly well-versed doctor, indeed, because he seemed to know exactly where all the Time-Lord pleasure centres resided, and his cock rubbed against them all inside the Doctor mercilessly.

The Doctor bit into his own forearm before him on the table to muffle his screams, and came with a wet, messy sputter onto the examination table.

A loud, low groan issued from Dr. Remast in response, followed by a “yes” and then “ _Doctor_!” The Doctor felt Dr. Remast empty himself deep into the Doctor’s arse, slicking up his insides further, flooding the Doctor with his pleasure.

Dr. Remast slumped forward onto the Doctor’s back for a moment, the two of them panting together with exertion, before Dr. Remast carefully pulled back and slipped out of the Doctor’s body.

“There”—the fake accent was back, seemingly with thrice the thickness—“you are now nice and protected against this planet’s radiation.” He slapped a blue star-shaped inoculation sticker onto the Doctor’s regular cheek and then a second on the Doctor’s presented arse cheek, just for good measure.

“Only _one_ star?” the Doctor protested.

Dr. Remast relented, and the Doctor felt him affix four more stars to his bum in quick succession. “Five stars out of five: you have earned it.”

The Doctor’s cheeks burned with either humiliation or pride. He could feel Dr. Remast’s semen leaking out of him now and squirmed at the attention. “Yes, right then. May I please get dressed now?”

“Just one last thing,” Dr. Remast insisted. The Doctor looked back over his shoulder in time to see what looked like a clear plastic plug in Dr. Remast’s hand. The Doctor yelped when Dr. Remast slid it past his well-used entrance so that the thickness of the plug slid snuggly against the Doctor’s passage, trapping the remaining ejaculate inside him. “You must wear this to give the medicine time to take effect,” Dr. Remast said with a pointed cough.

The Doctor squirmed and clenched around the plug. “Oh, I…” He felt a bit heated when he twisted around the intrusion in certain ways, and had to take a moment to compose himself and cool off again before he continued. “Ah. How long should I wear it?” Gingerly, he sat up. The plug was thick and wide and rubbed up against him so insistently that it drove him nearly to distraction.

Dr. Remast licked him lips, eyeing where the Doctor’s cock couldn’t quite decide whether or not it wanted to become aroused again. “Two days, let us say?” he suggested, blue eyes looking almost desperately hopeful as they gazed into the Doctor.

“Two days,” the Doctor agreed with a tight smile. “I think I can keep you inside me for two days.”

Dr. Remast actually _trembled_ at the thought. His cheeks might even have flushed slightly. “Yes, well,” he said, turning hastily away, “I have much work to do and—”

“Of course,” the Doctor agreed shifting delicately. He could feel the plug inside him when he moved; that wouldn’t make things awkward at _all_ , while he investigated those unusual energy signatures his TARDIS had detected.

“Of course,” Dr. Remast agreed, coughed once more uncomfortably, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then instead abruptly left.

The Doctor did his best to dress and leave the exam room without looking like he had a large plug and another man’s come rammed up his arse. By the time he uncovered the plot to overthrow the central government, he wasn’t even limping (much).

Surprisingly enough, for a simple doctor, Dr. Remast was really quite involved in the politics on Quirmus V. And even more surprisingly – no doubt to the shock of the entirely unsuspecting reader – when the Doctor finally confronted Dr. Remast about the cyborg army set to rise and conquer the capital from within, Dr. Remast cackled maniacally, threw aside the monocle and red beard to reveal that, all along, he had been – so suspenseful, I _know_ – the _Master_!

The Doctor gasped in disbelief. And realised, belatedly, that he’d actually had the Master’s come inside him the entire time he’d been thwarting the Master. In retrospect, a certain number of the Master’s dazed expressions and lapses in concentration over the course of the Doctor’s thwartings suddenly made a great deal more sense.

In fact, the Doctor abruptly found himself with a dazed expression and an unconscionable lapse in concentration of his own, during which the Master escaped quite thoroughly, the clever devil.

Quirmus V safe once more, the Doctor returned to his TARDIS, still walking quite gingerly. But he kept the plug in for the full two days.

Just in case, you know.

***

On Ireipon IX, the Doctor found himself promptly captured by the queen’s high advisor—

“Astrem,” the queen’s high advisor introduced himself.

“The Doctor, pleased to meet you,” the Doctor tipped his hat.

Astrem just glared at the Doctor, arms folded across his chest. If he’d had a tail, it no doubt would’ve been twitching with annoyance.

The queen’s high advisor Astrem – coincidentally – looked exactly like someone else the Doctor knew, except that he also appeared to be wearing one of those novelty pairs of thick glasses that had the fake nose and moustache attached. It looked rather silly, actually, over Astrem’s goatee, but the Doctor didn’t like to judge other planets’ fashions.

“ _Well_?” Astrem demanded after a lengthy pause.

The Doctor just smiled at Astrem pleasantly and gave him a jaunty wave.

“Don’t you have _anything_ to say?” Astrem sounded downright frustrated now.

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” the Doctor ventured.

Astrem let out an exclamation and raked his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “Come. With. Me,” he ordered tightly, grabbed the Doctor by the arm, and all but yanked him bodily into the adjoining room, which appeared to be some sort of kitchen.

“But,” the Doctor protested, “I thought you were going to take me to the queen as a suspected rebel against—”

Astrem cut the Doctor off with a finger to the Doctor’s lips.

The Doctor stepped back. “I say, now. That’s a bit familiar, isn’t it, given that we’ve just—?”

Astrem tossed aside his glasses, which it turned out were indeed those novelty glasses with the fake nose and moustache.

The Doctor gasped in surprise: “The Master!”

The Master groaned and banged his palm into his forehead. “Oh, come _on_!” he complained. “You can’t tell me that _that_ ”—he gestured to the fake-nose-and-moustache glasses that had fallen to the floor, a sneer on his face at the subpar disguise—“actually fooled you!”

The Doctor paused, nibbled his lip, and considered. “Well…” he agreed eventually, “no.”

“You knew it was me,” the Master accused.

“Well,” the Doctor admitted, “yes.” Another pause. “I didn’t want to say anything, but it was rather obvious. I mean, it’s just one of those novelty glasses with the fake nose and—”

“—Moustache,” the Master cut him off impatiently. “Yes, I know, I was wearing the blasted thing, if you’ll remember?”

“Quite,” the Doctor agreed.

“And?” the Master pressed.

“And what?”

“And,” the Master said, exasperated, “why didn’t you say anything? Call me out?”

The Doctor got very confused at that. “Did you want me to?” he asked, suddenly alarmed. “I thought you wanted to play dressing-up for a bit, then drag me off on some contrived pretext, and bugger me senseless.” The thought of the Master _not_ wanting to sneak up on him in disguise for surprise buttsex was nearly panic-inducing.

The Master’s expression turned almost contrite. “Now, now, my dear, no need to get worked up. Of _course_ I want to play dressing-up and bugger you.”

The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s just that, well, I figured that was our _thing_. I mean, that’s how we played it the last few times.”

“Ha!” the Master said. “So you did know that I was High Priest Emstar and Dr. Remast.”

“Well, of _course_ I did,” the Doctor said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t actually allow random strangers to have their wicked way with me, you know.”

The Master’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer. “Only me?” he demanded.

The Doctor wetted his lips. “Only you.”

The Master’s gloved hand stroked up the Doctor’s chest, toying with the weave of his vest. His eyes were fixed on the movement of his hand, as if fascinated by the play of black leather on tan fabric. “That’s as it should be,” he said, sounding very self-satisfied. He adjusted the Doctor’s celery stick possessively.

The Doctor coughed. “But?”

“But,” the Master repeated succinctly. “‘But’, indeed. Might it not be nice,” he said, soothing his hand up under the Doctor’s lapels now, “from time to time,” he found one of the Doctor’s braces and gave it a playful snap, “to switch things up, just a little.” As suddenly as it had come, the Master’s hand left the Doctor, causing him to feel rather bereft.

“Switch things up how?” the Doctor asked warily. A good number of the Master’s ideas involving ‘nice’ foreplay included torture dungeons and the aggressive use of the TCE on innocent humans, after all.

“I just think,” the Master said, strolling about the room far too casually, swiping one gloved finger across a sideboard and then rubbing his fingers together as if checking for dust, “that perhaps, occasionally, if I’m wearing an exceptionally poor disguise”—he curled his lip down at the nose-and-moustache glasses in disdain—“I wouldn’t object horrifically if you were to unmask me, manhandle me off in – say – chains, and…well…”

“Well, what?”

The Master glared at him, blue eyes flashing. “Have. Your. Self-Righteous. Way. With. Me,” he over-enunciated as if to ensure that the Doctor understood just how very put-off he was by having to say the obvious aloud.

“Oh!” the Doctor said, wide-eyed.

“Yes, ‘oh’,” the Master agreed.

“ _Oh_!”

“You’ve already said that!”

“I mean… Oh. I, well… You want me to… Well… And…” The Doctor made some rather ridiculous hand gestures and found that he’d backed himself into the far wall, as if he’d somehow managed to menace _himself_ back there.

Across the room from him, the Master scoffed in displeasure and returned to examining the cleanliness of the kettle. “Never mind,” he said, voice tight and chest puffed up in offended indignation, “you’re clearly not cut out to play the part of holier-than-thou jail-keeper.”

The Doctor sighed and studied the stiff line of the Master’s spine. “I didn’t precisely say ‘no’,” he finally said warily. “I’d just…well…”

The Master half-turned so that he could watch the Doctor out of the corner of his eye.

The Doctor shoved his hands deep into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “It had never really occurred to me that you might want me to…well…you know. I mean, you _do_ go about calling yourself ‘the Master’, after all…”

“I _am_ the Master,” the Master snapped, “and you will obey me.”

“Right.”

“However,” the Master began cautiously.

“However.”

“I might be allowed to take a brief holiday. From time to time.”

“From being the Master,” the Doctor said sceptically.

“It is a rather full-time job,” the Master conceded.

“Hmm.”

The two of them studiously avoided looking at each other. After all, they didn’t _talk_ about this sort of thing. They just sort of dove in, followed their own natural predilections, and – the Doctor had thought – both came out of their little games quite satisfied.

However, the Master really had been such a good sport, coming up with so many creative ways to ream out the Doctor’s arse. Particularly that lovely affair with the rapiers and the Magna Carta and the Master’s TARDIS as an iron maiden, yum! The Doctor could see how maybe he’d been over-relying on the Master’s direction, coasting a bit too much in their relationship, perhaps.

“So…” the Doctor began awkwardly, “do you still want to do this?”

The Master turned to look at him sharply, as if in disbelief.

The Doctor shrugged and bent over to pick up the nose-and-moustache glasses in offering.

The Master’s cheeks flushed pink, and he snatched the disguise – if such a word really could be applied to such a piteous thing – back from him. “Let’s,” he agreed, settling the glasses back in place upon his face.

He took a moment to compose himself and then threw open the door and stepped briskly back out, the Doctor trailing on his heels.

The various guards and retainers of Ireipon IX’s queen’s high advisor all looked vaguely confused but snapped back to attention at the return of their master.

“Ahem.” The Master coughed and took his position from earlier; the Doctor gamely stepped back onto his mark across from him. “As I was saying, I am the queen’s high advisor, Astrem, and this rabble-rousing rebel must be taken before the tribunal immediately!” He pointed an accusing finger at the Doctor.

“Ha!” the Doctor said, and parried the Master’s arm aside to point his own accusing finger. “I say that it is you who is rousing the rabble!” He lunged inward and snatched away the Master’s poor abused fake-glasses disguise. “I present to you all: the Master! Craftily disguised to sow discord upon your peaceful planet!”

The assembled various guards and retainers gasped in shock.

“Oh no!” the Master over-emoted. “How ever did you see through my brilliant disguise, Doctor?”

“My keen eyes can always spot a blackguard like you!” the Doctor insisted.

The Master snorted with laughter, but cleverly covered it rather well. “Curses! Once again, I am no match for your”—a half-suppressed snicker—“unsurpassed skills of observation.”

At that point, the Doctor figured it was best to get on with things before they gave themselves away with a fit of the giggles, and the both of them got arrested by the increasingly perplexed royal entourage. “I will take this villain into custody for you,” he informed the others, grabbed the Master by the arm, and led him back to the TARDIS. “Never fear: we Time Lords take proper care of our own criminals.”

He could actually see the shiver that ran down the Master’s spine when he said it.

The Master put in a bit of show about struggling, forced the Doctor to grapple with him and manhandle him a bit and rub their bodies together, but he was far from reluctant to be led back into the Doctor’s TARDIS with the door to their audience shut behind them.

“And now that you’ve captured me at long last,” the Master said, looking at the Doctor through hooded eyes where the Doctor backed him into the console, “what will you do with me?” It came out breathless with anticipation.

The Doctor activated the time rotor and sent them into orbit within the Time Vortex. That seemed like a nice romantic setting for Time-Lord shenanigans. “I shall just have to teach you the error of your ways,” he concluded, placing his hands on the console on either side of the Master’s hips and leaning in.

“Oh?” the Master said coyly. “Someone as incurably evil as I am? How ever will you do that?” The Master’s eyes were fixed almost hypnotically on the Doctor’s lips, but he didn’t move to touch him.

Right, because that was the Doctor’s job, wasn’t it? The Doctor reached up – cautiously at first, but then he snapped himself out of it and went for boldly instead – and caught the Master’s chin in his palm, tilting it towards him. “We’ll see how defiant you are when I’m through punishing you,” he announced melodramatically because the Master seemed to go for that sort of thing. (Okay, fair cop: _both_ of them seemed to go for that sort of thing.)

He kissed the Master then, as passionately as he could. It wasn’t exactly rough, but it was very wet and eager, so he hoped that that would do. The Master didn’t seem to be complaining; in fact, he was moaning eagerly into the Doctor’s mouth and squirming against him, such that the Doctor decided to take a slight liberty and hoisted the Master up by those nefarious, slinky hips of his onto the console so that he could fit between the Master’s legs more snuggly.

The Master continued not to complain. Enthusiastically.

It really did help to have such an ardent partner, the Doctor found. He wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse here, but he found himself quite hard nonetheless, and that desire provoked him to be a bit bolder and go for the Master’s belt.

Their mouths broke apart out of necessity while the Doctor forced the Master’s trousers and pants off his thighs and down, and the Master took the opportunity to gasp out, “Y-You wouldn’t! Take advantage of a helpless prisoner like this? What of your vaunted moral code, Doctor?”

The Doctor got the Master’s pants off one ankle, which was good enough, and came back up to shove him back into the time rotor so that he was bared and splayed for the Doctor. “Nothing immoral about it,” he insisted and went for the fastenings of his own trousers. “The only way you’ll ever learn…” He got his cock out and lined up. There was a moment of panic when he realised he didn’t have any lube, but then the Master rubbed up against him enticingly, and the Doctor could _feel_ that he was pre-slicked, as if he’d prepared himself for the Doctor earlier, the naughty fellow!

“Yes?” the Master said, sounding far too keen for someone who was theoretically being punished or whatever. “‘The only way I’ll ever learn’…” he repeated eagerly.

The Doctor thrusted home in a firm but gentle stroke. “…Is if I fill you with good instead,” he finished, squeezing his eyes shut tight to keep from coming on the spot. The Master was warm and tight, and also tight and warm, and had the Doctor mentioned yet that he was warm? And also tight?

The Master let out a ragged gasp at the very thought and clenched around the Doctor, which really did not help the Doctor at all in trying to act like some kind of lecherous, overbearing goody-goody. Hopefully, the Master would forgive him; it certainly _felt_ like the Master would forgive him.

“Y-You mean…?” Actually, the Master sounded like he was getting quite off on the Doctor’s efforts, haphazard though they were. Thank Gallifrey for bulletproof kinks!

“Yes,” the Doctor agreed and managed to get into it a bit again, beginning a series of deep, smooth thrusts into the Master’s body, “I plan to _fuck_ the evil out of you.”

The Master groaned. “Oh. Oh. Oh… _dear_!” He did seem to be quite enjoying himself, lying back like that and just letting the pleasure come to him for once.

The Doctor found himself going a bit sappy at the thought, and began peppering kisses all over the Master’s face and neck (note for next time: remove the velvet jacket too, for more skin to kiss). He rolled his hips in and out, rocking the Master into a regular rhythm of pleasure, making up for lack of force with finesse.

They grunted and writhed and clutched together far too briefly before the Master was coming as if the very thought of this Doctor inside him was too much for him. The Doctor, not at all used to this sort of thing, came embarrassingly soon thereafter. It really was quite nice, burying himself in the Master like this, letting himself flow out inside of the Master’s body, long and fluid and lazy.

They lay together sprawled over the console in the aftermath, sticky and messy.

“Sorry,” the Doctor said when the Master shifted in complaint at his weight, and he slipped back out of the Master’s body.

“No, don’t _apologise_ ,” the Master said disdainfully.

“Oh, uh, right.” The Doctor gave the Master’s behind a half-hearted little smack. “There. That will teach you. Now, don’t ever do it again!” It didn’t sound even half as convincing to the Doctor’s ears without the arousal to egg him on.

The Master continued to play along though, bless him. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk well enough to carry out my next dastardly plan for…well, _hours_.”

The Doctor hesitated for a moment, unsure. Finally, he couldn’t help but break character: “Sorry, sorry, but does that mean that you want me to do it again?” Strange that he actually found himself looking somewhat forward to the prospect.

The Master arched an eyebrow.

“Well, how am I supposed to tell?” the Doctor threw up his hands in exasperation. “When am I supposed to bend over for your disguises, and when do you want me to…you know?” It seemed he was unable to mention it again, outside of the immediate circumstance.

The Master winced a little as he wiggled his way back off the console and untangled his pants and trousers from around his ankle to set them back to rights. “I should have thought it obvious,” he said a bit snidely, although the effect was rather ruined by the fact that the Doctor’s come was dribbling down his inner thigh.

The Doctor might have spaced out for a period of their exchange then. It was just: he’d been _inside_ the Master, he’d _had_ him. Those sorts of thought tended to preoccupy one.

The Master glared at him, clothes all properly in place again. He slicked back his hair, which had gone a bit wild amidst their frantic copulation, and now looked as cool and composed as always. The Doctor fervently hoped that the Master wanted to be taught a lesson again very, very soon.

“Sorry, what?” the Doctor said, brilliantly.

“I said,” the Master repeated with a long-suffering air, “that when my disguises are exceptionally easy to see through, you may take that as a sign. I’ll save my better disguises for when I want you to submit.”

“Right,” the Doctor said. And then: “Wait, what? But _all_ your disguises are exceptionally easy to see through!”

The Master froze, staring at him stunned for one moment. Then he blustered out defensively, “They are _not_!”

Oh dear, the Doctor had stepped in it this time, hadn’t he? See, this was why they didn’t have honest conversations with each other. “Well,” he said sheepishly, “maybe just a _little_.”

“Come now,” the Master insisted, “Estram, I’ll give you. That one was a not-so-subtle hint that you managed to completely overlook. But Kalid? You did _not_ see through Kalid.”

“No, I absolutely did.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“Did not.”

Well, this was turning into an exceptionally penetrating battle of wits. “Did so. I just,” the Doctor admitted, “well, wasn’t quite sure I _wanted_ to get buggered by that Kalid costume.”

The Master sulked. “You didn’t know I was the Portreeve,” he accused.

“I didn’t know who _I_ was even then, let alone you,” the Doctor said. “But I did…er, well. You _were_ leering at me an awful lot in that disguise, my dear.”

“Well, it’s hardly _my_ fault you’d just regenerated so prettily,” the Master retorted. He sounded hollow, though, as if the Doctor had genuinely taken him down the wind out of his sails, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“Look,” the Doctor said, stepping up close to the Master and slipping his arms reassuringly around the Master’s waist, “it’s nothing to be upset about. You merely have exceptionally mesmerising eyes.” The Master looked up at him sharply at that, and the Doctor gulped as he was mesmerised anew. “Beautiful eyes,” he repeated. “They do tend to give you away.” He leaned in to brush a kiss against the edge of one of those extraordinary eyes.

He felt the Master relax into his arms, the weight of his body solid against the Doctor’s.

“Yes, well…” The Master’s lips traced across the underside of the Doctor’s jaw, his beard tickling the Doctor’s skin. “Aren’t you just full of surprises?” His arms slid around the Doctor’s waist, and one particularly cheeky hand landed squarely on the Doctor’s bum. The Master gave it a proprietary squeeze. “Not as oblivious as you seem.”

“It would be hard to be entirely as oblivious as I seem,” the Doctor admitted.

“I shall just have to try harder with you then, won’t I?”

The Doctor gulped. “Oh, yes. Please.”

“But, for practical purposes,” the Master continued, “when I refer to disguises that are exceptionally easy to see through, I really mean the ‘exceptionally’.”

“Like, say, a cheap pair of fake-nose-and-moustache glasses?”

“Yes. In such a circumstance, please do feel free to have me at your leisure. I take it that you can tell the difference?”

The Doctor nodded. “I think so.”

“And,” the Master concluded, “if you’re ever in any doubt, the obvious disguises are also always accompanied by an equally obvious anagram.”

The Doctor smiled and nodded, and then froze and frowned. “Wait, what?” he asked in genuine bafflement. “What’s all this about anagrams?”

The Master banged his head on the Doctor’s chest. They still had such a long way to go.


End file.
